Like You've Never Known Fear
by VivatRex
Summary: Annoying philosophical concepts. A bottle of 250 year old wine. A demon who doesn't want to talk about what he saw in Heaven. There's no going back. A/C


**Like You've Never Known Fear**

_A/N: An angsty getting-together fic was necessary. _

* * *

Aziraphale and Crowley don't realize it, but as one stares down the flames of Hell and the other into the crystal clear reflection of a face so familiar but not his own, that they are thinking the same thing with identical amounts of horror.

_This is how he would have died._

Aziraphale watches Hastur sacrifice the small demon to the holy water, hears the creature's shrill cries as it's melted into nothing—and he thinks about how he's never, not once in 6,000 years heard Crowley scream in pain. Growl at a stubbed toe, hiss at a burn, curse at a cut. Never scream. He doesn't even know what it would sound like. He's sure he doesn't want to know, but his mind is racing with thoughts of how just one misstep could have led Crowley to this, to a brutal, agonizing death.

Alone in Hell.

He schools his face, Crowley's face, but he is shaken.

Meanwhile, in the blank expanses of Heaven, Crowley stares into the flames, as he has done so many times before. He stares into these as he stared into the flames that swallowed Aziraphale's bookshop. The flames that surrounded London in a chokehold. The flames dancing on Aziraphale's sword.

The flames that greeted him when he first Fell.

(Sauntering vaguely downwards is a nice, stylistic spin. Sounds far better than: plummeting at the speed of light into boiling sulfur, begging for the sweet release of death only to be denied again and again as his wings burned, his ethereal form ashed into nothing. All that remained of him when it was said and done was a snake. The first snake.)

Nobody has quite so intimate a relationship with fire as Crowley. He knows its burn all too well.

It was the angel that decoded Agnes Nutter's most important prophecy. If he had not, it would be Aziraphale sitting here, about to be burned to death by his own family, his brothers and sisters. Without so much as a trial. Without so much as a question as to why he did what he did.

So foreign to these angels, the idea of loving the world, of loving humanity, that they hand wave away any narrative besides their own, assuming Aziraphale has gone native and leaving it at that.

Making an example of a traitor. That's all it is to them.

It is at this point that Crowley's mind wanders to a philosophical concept known as a syllogism; a systematic representation of a single logical inference.

A syllogism holds within it three parts: a major premise, a minor premise, and a conclusion. The parts are defined as follows:

I. The major premise contains a term from the predicate of the conclusion.

II. The minor premise contains a term from the subject of the conclusion.

III. The conclusion combines major and minor premise with usually the word 'therefore' involved somewhere, because saying 'therefore' in an argument makes you sound very smart indeed, and truly, the only reason to know anything at all about philosophy is if you plan to argue with someone about it. Or, in the case of the Demon Crowley, plan to stand at the end of the world with nothing but a tire iron to defend yourself from Satan.

When all premises in a syllogism are true and constructed correctly, the syllogism is an ironclad logical argument.

The most famous syllogism in philosophy goes as such:

I. All men are mortal (major premise)

II. Socrates is a man (minor premise)

III. Therefore, Socrates is mortal (conclusion)

Because both premises are true, then the conclusion by default must be true as well.

But there are also faulty syllogisms, where the premises and conclusion may be logically sound, but factually incorrect, influenced either by a faulty basis, subjectivity, or a false premise. Follow along:

I. Heaven, and all things contained therein, are the Ultimate Good (major premise)

II. Heaven is full of angels (minor premise)

III. Therefore, all angels are Good (conclusion)

This is a case where the Major Premise is based on a Faulty Assumption, thus rendering the Conclusion Untrue.

Or, to put things in a more succinct fashion—in Crowley's own thoughts—just because Heaven says they are Good, does not make them so. They are actually—once more, per Crowley's thoughts—maniacal, shortsighted, sadistic prats, and he rather wishes he could kill every last one of them with his bare hands.

Crowley has not, in many years, felt truly Demonic. He craves low-level chaos; his hands itch to slash tires and steal radios, rearrange sign boards and turn off WiFi routers. He thrives on minor inconveniences. He is not constantly possessed by the urge to destroy, consume, alter, and corrupt, as many of his fellows are. Violence is not his thing, it never has been, and will likely continue not to be. First person to raise a fist, etcetera, etcetera.

However, for Gabriel, Crowley would like nothing more than to make an exception.

He steps into the fire and cracks his neck, swaying in the flames, like a man taking a very hot and very much needed shower. He would love to pull Gabriel by the wrist into the flames. See how he likes it. See how he burns.

But he has to be Aziraphale, just a slightly more terrifying version of him—so he breathes flame at the angels, and they scramble backwards, clutching each other.

Crowley laughs with Aziraphale's voice, and it sounds wrong, but he can't bring himself to care.

"It's so warm...Gabriel, care to join me?" he says with a grin, tilting his head further sideways than any human could manage without breaking it.

This is the only fun he allows himself, and fun is a poor term for it. He's holding back everything in him that wants to burn these angels alive.

But Aziraphale wouldn't.

So Crowley doesn't.

* * *

"To the world."

"To the world."

Crowley has never seen a softer smile on Aziraphale's face, a happier one—a more relieved one. The angel is born anew, as though an enormous weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He supposes it has, both Aziraphale's shoulders and his narrow bony ones are free of the burden of their predestined sides.

_Our side._

My, he does like the sound of that.

Crowley sips at his champagne, the piano lilts in the background, and Aziraphale leans towards him, still excited by his jaunt down to Hell. "And then, I say to them—oh, you'll like this, Crowley: _you're probably wondering, if he can do this, what else can he do?_"

Crowley doesn't respond, but he does smile at the angel, a sign for him to continue. Aziraphale seems to have heartily enjoyed his time as Crowley. Crowley wishes he could say the same about his time in Heaven. Crowley has, thus far, said nothing at all about his time in Heaven.

He plans to keep it that way.

"And then I made your eyes do that thing where they're full yellow with no sclera and they get that menacing glow to them, you see, and then I said, _and very soon, you're all going to get the chance to find out_."

"A natural actor," Crowley comments.

"I thought I did a rather good job of playing you," Aziraphale says proudly, adjusting his bow tie. "But to be perfectly honest, my dear, I'm just relieved it's over and neither of us are the worse for wear. I perish to think what would have happened if we hadn't been able to discern what Agnes meant by choosing faces."

"I think we would have perished," Crowley answers back numbly, and feels a great deal like a person seated on the edge of a cliff, all too aware of the knowledge that one wrong movement could send them far over the edge.

"Too right," Aziraphale says, smile falling. He quickly directs the conversation elsewhere, however. "Those new Richmal Crompton Lamburn books that Adam left in the bookshop are in absolute mint condition, did you know that? They must be worth a small fortune. I can't say the subject matter is something I'm particularly invested in, but nevertheless—"

And Crowley loses himself easily in the sound of Aziraphale's voice, the relief and excitement in his eyes, and he's almost at peace.

_"Shut your stupid mouth and die already."_

Almost.

Granted a trial in Hell, but not in Heaven. And he was guilty of the crimes he stood accused of in Hell, as he had most certainly killed Ligur. What had been Aziraphale's crime? Saving the planet. Saving the human race. Preventing the end of the world.

Guilty of doing Good.

His fingernails dig into the fine white table cloth, and he hopes Aziraphale doesn't notice.

Eventually, after Aziraphale's had his fill of cream cakes, they retreat back to the bookshop, where Aziraphale happily shows him the aforementioned Just William collection, and then dives into the backroom for a bottle of—

"Angel, you can't. You've been saving that since—"

"1787, yes. But surely there's no better time?" The angel's cheeks are already resting at a blush from the champagne they'd shared. "My dear, we saved the world."

"And ourselves," Crowley adds.

Aziraphale brandishes the Chateau Lafite Rothschild. "I daresay we've earned this."

The angel breaks out the wine glasses.

* * *

Crowley almost forgets about Heaven, between the alcohol and the pleasure of the angel's company. For the first time in 6,000 years, they aren't looking over their shoulders. For the first time in 6,000 years, they're...free.

Finally free.

But still.

_"Don't talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I'm the Archangel Fucking Gabriel."_

She'd made them to be shepherds, hadn't She? Wasn't that the great bloody point of them all? And none had wanted to shepherd as much as Aziraphale. Guiding humans towards the light, perpetually. Working more miracles than Heaven was ever comfortable with. He loved them, the humans—tried to save them any chance he got, tried to steer them on the right path. He loved their minds, their hearts, their impossible creativity.

And he would have been killed for that love.

_"We have to make an example out of the traitor."_

Traitor to bloody twatting _what._

God has been quiet for so long.

"Crowley?"

Crowley lifts his head. He's perched on the arm of the couch in Aziraphale's backroom, on his eighteenth (perhaps nineteenth) glass of wine.

"Mmm?"

"My dear, you've gone—" Aziraphale hiccups. "—gone all quiet. Are you alright?"

"Tch, yeah, fine, right as rain, right as...whatever else is right," he manages. Sobriety departed long ago. "'M just drunk."

"Me too!" Aziraphale agrees happily. "Now, Crowley—" Aziraphale points at him, finger unsteady, eyes squinted. "You—you haven't said a word about what happened when you were in Heaven. I'm—_hic_—dying to hear it."

Dying indeed. Crowley glances out the window, watches headlights streak through the night. "Not much. Went in, pretended to be you, put the fear of—well, you know—into them. Left in style." He forces a lazy smirk. "What else would I have done?"

"But the _details_, dear boy. What did Gabriel _say?_" Aziraphale presses, and Crowley suddenly wishes they hadn't drank, because Aziraphale usually wouldn't be so insistent.

"Does it really matter, angel?"

"I was on trial for my life," Aziraphale points out mildly. "I should like to know what was said in my defense—and in accusation, you know, my crimes weren't nearly as cut and dried as yours—"

"Aziraphale," Crowley interrupts, voice low. "Just...drop it. 'Kay?"

Aziraphale stares at him blankly, mouth slightly open, wine glass held aloft in his hand. He's sunk back far into the other end of the couch. "What could have occurred at my trial to disturb you like this?"

Crowley notices the bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild is beginning to refill, among a few of the other discarded empties about the room. Aziraphale is trying to sober up. He knows something's off.

Crowley stands up, deciding he'd rather stay trashed, thank you very much. "'Ssss getting late," he hisses, forgetting himself.

Aziraphale's standing up now.

"Gotta be getting on," Crowley's making for the door. "I'll see you, ah—"

Aziraphale grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around. "Crowley, tell me what happened."

Crowley doesn't have a better response than, "No."

Just _no._

"Surely it couldn't have been worse than your trial in Hell—"

_"You didn't get a trial, Aziraphale."_

No, no, blast it, he shouldn't have said that. Why did he say that? He could've lied, could've left, could've done anything but tell him. Because Aziraphale's lost faith in Heaven, in the angels, he proved that much when he stood with Crowley at the end of the world, flaming sword in hand, Lucifer in front of them.

But Crowley doesn't want his heart to break further. Doesn't want him to realize it's not just a matter of having diametrically opposed opinions on the fate of the human race. Doesn't want him to know that his own kind would rather burn him than understand him.

Aziraphale's face is crestfallen. "I...there wasn't…?" He blinks rapidly, as if trying to dispel some troubling thought. "Surely they…?"

"They didn't." In for a penny, in for a pound. "They called you a traitor and threw you in Hellfire. Imagine the look on Gabriel's face when you didn't burn." He's struggling for levity now, but he knows there's no going back.

Aziraphale's fumbling with his pocketwatch chain, stammering, processing, and not processing well. "I...I see. Well. That certainly...it's...it's very…"

"It's_ fucked_, angel," Crowley fills in for him, taking off his sunglasses and rubbing a hand over his face. "It's proper fucked."

Aziraphale's body tremors once. Just once.

He wraps his arms around Crowley and buries his face in his neck. He clings to Crowley, and Crowley isn't sure if he's crying or not, but he is shaking, and his breath is not nearly as steady as usual.

After a few moments, Crowley confirms that Aziraphale is indeed crying from the dampness he feels accumulating on his shoulder. Aziraphale loves to cry. He's cried through every Shakespearian tragedy, every tear-jerking book—he often reads those ones over again just to cry some more. Crowley's never understood it.

He's never seen Aziraphale cry from real sorrow. From pain.

He realizes he's not hugging him back after a moment, and rectifies the situation. He wraps both of his slightly too-long arms around the angel's shoulders and holds him. He has not hugged Aziraphale in 6,000 years. This is the closest they've ever been, and surely the closest they ever will be.

Sick as it is, he enjoys it—but that's him, isn't it? Greedy on the inside. Even in moments like this. Aziraphale's hair is ungodly soft, tickling along his jaw. The angel smells like good wine and cocoa, old books and just the ever-so-subtle underlying hint of Other, of Bigger, of Better.

Aziraphale eventually quiets, and pulls back enough in Crowley's arms to look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, but he seems to have acquired some new resolve. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, reaching for the handkerchief in his pocket to dab at his face. He still keeps one arm tucked around Crowley, their torsos are still brushing, still nearly nose-to-nose.

In this moment, Crowley assumes Aziraphale is thinking that he's embarrassed to have lost it like that and gone searching for the arms of a demon, of all things. Because yes, they're friends, and yes, they're comrades in league against Satan, but Aziraphale has never seemed to forget for even a second exactly what Crowley is, and Crowley doubts very much that he's going to start now.

This is not what Aziraphale is thinking as he tucks his handkerchief away.

Aziraphale is, in fact, thinking that he loves Crowley, very, very much. That he loves Crowley moreso than anything the world has ever seen, any single creature or contraption ever created by Man or God. He loves Crowley most of all. Crowley, who went to Heaven for him. Crowley, who would have died with him. Crowley, who has always seen something in him that the other angels have not. Something Good. Proper Good, not Heavenly Good.

It took him 6,000 years to realize that what is actually right and what is widely considered to be right are not the same thing. It would be unfair to blame him for this; angels are slow to change. Not like Crowley. Crowley, ever-changing, ever-growing Crowley. Who sheds skin like a snake and finds better ones, who seems to have a million different shades of himself and Aziraphale can never learn them all.

Crowley, who is a Demon, but who is Good.

It is at this point that Aziraphale too recalls what a faulty syllogism is—Crowley doesn't realize this, but it is Aziraphale who introduced him to the concept in the first place, thousands of years ago. Aziraphale always got on well with Socrates.

Here's how it goes:

I. Hell is Evil (major premise)

II. Demons are from Hell (minor premise)

III. Therefore, all Demons are Evil (conclusion)

Where does the faulty assumption lie? The whole bloody thing, Aziraphale decides.

He loves Crowley, and has, for a very long time. And he knows that Crowley loves him as well. He is a being of love, made to do it, made to feel it. And Crowley hasn't been able to hide it in at least four hundred years. Aziraphale worried, for a very long time, that it was not a sincere love; rather a lust for Heaven, a longing for what Crowley was now forever denied. That Crowley loved him as a reminder of all that he'd lost, a taste of his unattainable past.

It was in 1941 that he made a two-fold decision: Crowley loves him, in a very human way, in a way Aziraphale thought a demon could never love. Secondly, Aziraphale loves him back, entirely.

But to love Crowley was to kill Crowley; Hell would never have spared him. Aziraphale perhaps could have claimed corruption and gotten off with a citation, but Hell would never have been so kind to Crowley. He believes that still, this drunken night in the bookshop, even after learning that perhaps Hell is far kinder than Heaven.

Now, however...

Aziraphale, his hand trembling, settles his fingers against the sharp edge of Crowley's cheek. The demon freezes under his touch. Aziraphale is grateful Crowley's taken his sunglasses off. The demon's tried to hide those eyes for a very long time, but Aziraphale finds them striking. Beautiful.

"Our side," Aziraphale says, very, very softly, watching Crowley's face, watching his eyes. "You really are the only one who's ever seen me, aren't you?"

Crowley saw something in him, that day on the walls of Eden. Something he liked.

Crowley would say it was because he finally found something to have faith in, to believe in. This one angel with a soul. This one angel who cared for more than the Ineffable Plan. This angel who questioned and doubted and loved so wholly.

Aziraphale doesn't know this.

All of the wine bottles in the shop are filled once more. They are both well within their faculties.

Good, Aziraphale thinks. He'd rather like to remember this.

"What are you doing?" Crowley asks, voice pitched down.

"Something I should have done a long time ago."

Aziraphale's heart pounds in his chest.

He presses his lips to Crowley's, a feather touch.

Crowley makes a sound, almost pained. Like a wounded animal. Both of the demons hands are in his hair within seconds, buried there, pulling him closer, clinging to him, lips smashed together gracelessly. Aziraphale has forgotten how to breathe.

Then, just as quickly as it began, it's over, and Crowley is backing away, shaking his head.

Aziraphale is at a loss, his entire body an adrenaline-soaked mess. "You—I thought—?"

"I _do_," Crowley says emphatically, and he's never seen such poignant loss on the demon's face. "But you don't."

Aziraphale blinks, stunned. "I—am I not making myself blatantly clear? As to what I want?"

"You don't want this."

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, perhaps the deepest he's ever taken, and he finally gives life to the words he has wanted to say for so painfully long: "I love you, Crowley."

"Of course you do," the demon dismisses him immediately, and Aziraphale shrinks. He has never once, not in his entire life, imagined that to be Crowley's response to his long-awaited confession. Crowley's mouth is turned downward, remarkably bitter, but he'd tasted so sweet. "You love everything, Aziraphale. That's who you are. You're programmed to love, even something like me. You love me like you love your books and your tea. You don't—you're not _in_ love with me."

_But I am! Don't you see, I always have been — always you, Crowley. Only you._

But Azirpahale doesn't say this. Instead, he says, almost coldly, "Awfully presumptuous of you."

"I know I'm right." Crowley's voice is curiously absent any real tone or emotion. "Goodnight, angel."

Crowley's out the door before Aziraphale can stop him.

* * *

In Soho, Aziraphale paces the shop, caught between devastation and utter confusion. This is not how the story is supposed to go. He has played it out in his mind so many times; he tells Crowley the truth about his feelings for him, Crowley returns them, and they—well, they proceed as one would expect two very in love people to proceed. Violins play soft and low in the background, the lights dim. A happy ever after if there ever was one.

But Crowley can't believe his love is true. What has he done over 6,000 years to make him doubt him like this?

_The constant accusations...the repeated reminding him of what arbitrary sides you were on…oh I really was a fool, wasn't I?_

Aziraphale is dense, but he is not stupid.

He sees where he's erred.

* * *

In Peckham, Crowley sits on his throne. One leg up over the arm of the extravagant chair, the other one planted on the floor. His arms loll to the side. One hand holds a bottle. He's not sure of what, but it doesn't matter at this point, only the intoxication does. The sober drive from Aziraphale's bookshop to his flat was torturous. He isn't looking to see past the fog in his mind for quite some time.

6,000 years. How many times had he stopped himself from leaning just that much closer? Schooled his touches and how close he stood, took such care to build these barriers and boundaries between himself and Aziraphale, took more care with that than just about any other damn thing he's done in his entire worthless life. Because that is The Arrangement as much as the occasional helping hand and not stepping on each other's toes is. Keeping up the facade, to keep Aziraphale.

It was never a question of whether Aziraphale loved him. He did. Of course he did, the bloody feather duster loved just about everyone and everything, provided they didn't try to buy any of his blasted books.

But Aziraphale isn't _in love_ with him. Even now, even—even after _kissing him_, he knows it can't be. Aziraphale is lost without Heaven, alone more now than ever before. Alone except for him. Projecting that fear and isolation onto the only other thing in the world he has. Grabbing onto Crowley like a life preserver.

Why did he ever tell him about Heaven? Why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut? Then The Arrangement, The Real Arrangement, could have gone on forever. Tiptoeing around what he wants to keep what he needs. Because nothing is worth losing Aziraphale, not even to take the risk of having him completely.

He nearly shudders at the brief recollection of the angel's lips on his. Soft and gentle and insistent and pure and—

He clenches a fist and presses it against his mouth.

How he'd managed to pull away, he still didn't know.

Moonlight streams through the window, slanting pale gray beams across the surface of his plush, vacant desk. Crowley sets the bottle down on the surface, half empty, and wonders if he's now staring down a long, long, long eternity without Aziraphale. He has no words for the angel other than what he's already said. How to move past this?

In Peckham, Crowley knows there is no moving past this.

In Soho, Aziraphale knows there is no moving past this.

No forgetting.

The angel moves first.

* * *

Crowley hears the tentative knock on his flat door and almost, almost ignores it.

Almost.

He gets up, finds his way to the door. Rests his forehead against it. Whatever Aziraphale says, it's not going to change anything.

"Crowley?" the angel says his name, and something twists in his chest. He opens the door. He's glad he has his sunglasses on.

"Couldn't wait till morning?" the demon asks, tired, drunk, heartbroken. This is supposed to be the first day of the rest of their lives, but why does so much feel like it's coming to an end?

Aziraphale steps inside and closes the door behind him. "No."

They stand their, half a meter separating them.

"Have you spent the past 6,000 years convincing yourself that you could never be loved?" Aziraphale says without preamble, in a way so forward it takes Crowley's breath away. His words are low and sincere, his eyes searching for his past the shade of his sunglasses.

Crowley turns away. Saunters to the window. Watches the street. It's quiet now, nearly 3am.

"Or, just never loved by me?" Aziraphale continues, voice growing tighter.

"Been over this, haven't we?" Crowley asks, never having felt so old.

"You say I'm not in love with you."

"You're not," Crowley hisses. "You're—you've lost everything, and I'm what you've got. So you think there's something—" he waves his hand blindly, "it doesn't matter, none of this matters, it all boils down to the same, dunnit?" His head's swimming.

"And what's that?" Aziraphale pressures him, following him to the center of the room, the vacant, vast room. The room that is so distinctly unlived in, that designer unlived in look that comes only from _not living_ in a space. The space that he wants to be Heaven and Eden but is just every other bloody London hipster flat, just with better taken care of plants and more expensive furniture. Imitations of the heavenly and imitations of humanity, always.

Neither. Less than either.

Crowley starkly realizes he has very little of his own. Only homages to everything he isn't, and will never be. Even Aziraphale, 'his' angel—is not so much his, but just another idiot who ended up on the same raft floating out to sea.

"You don't love me the way that I love you." So much damage has already been done, why not make it worse? "I accepted that a long time ago."

He's surprised when he senses anger rolling off the angel. Crowley is sensitive to negative emotions, as opposed to Aziraphale, who senses the best in everyone.

"Where do you get off?" Aziraphale demands, and suddenly there's a hand grabbing Crowley by the arm and whirling him around, gripping him just underneath the elbow. "Where do you get off telling me what I'm capable of and what I'm not, or presume to know how I've felt all this time?"

"You've always been pretty clear about it." So strange, to see anger in the angel's eyes. Wicked bright blue. Salt seas and cold skies.

He wishes he'd had more to drink.

"We're not friends," Crowley quotes at him, "you don't even like me."

"You know exactly why I said that and you know it wasn't true," Aziraphale shot back immediately.

"Enlighten me."

A twitch in Aziraphale's cheek, and then a softening, "We never knew when we were being watched. When it would all come crashing down. Any...distance...I've put between us, all this time—"

"Just protecting me, hm?" Crowley tries to pull away, but Aziraphale holds firm. "Always thought you had a bone to pick with revisionist history, angel."

"1941."

"What?"

"The Blitz."

"I _remember_, Aziraphale, I had burns on my feet for the next three weeks, what's your bloody _point_?"

"That's when I realized I was in love with you, as you were with me. Because I'd known, Crowley. I'd known for so long that you loved me. I only feared what that meant, for both of us. So no, my dear, this is not a—a sudden fleeting fancy of mine. It has always, always, _always_ been you."

"Stop."

"Never."

They stare at each other.

Aziraphale takes off his sunglasses. With the utmost care, he tucks them into Crowley's pants pocket, patting them once they're safely inside. Then the angel's eyes return to his.

"Telling you then, likely would have ended with you dead," the angel continues quietly. "And nothing, nothing at all, would ever be worth losing you—even at the cost of never really having you."

Crowley doesn't know what to say, hearing the angel echo his own thoughts that had crossed his mind only mere minutes ago. He wants to double down. Wants to insist there's no way the angel can possibly reciprocate what he's felt all these years. But Aziraphale is so damned sincere and his eyes…

Aziraphale is a terrible, terrible liar.

Crowley knows he's telling the truth. And just what the hell is he supposed to do with that? With the foreign and terrifying hope burning to life in his chest?

"Whatever our souls are made of, they're the same," the angel steps closer to him, and Crowley hitches in a breath. He knows he won't run away this time, can't bring himself to. Aziraphale always did do so well on those little outings to cover Crowley's temptations.

"If you do this, there's no going back. For either of us," Crowley warns, and for the second time that night, he forces his body back into sobriety. "You really want an eternity with me?"

He stills at the hand on his face. Aziraphale's eyes swim with unshed tears, and he gives him a smile so warm and so genuine Crowley feels a give in his chest. "Yes," the angel answers emphatically.

They meet in the middle that time. Tentative. Terrified.

They break apart, watching each other in the dim moonlight.

And then Crowley's shoving Aziraphale back against the wall, hands in his hair, and Aziraphale's hands are stripping off his suit coat, grabbing him by the hips once that's on the ground, pressing them closer together, closer, seeking a oneness neither of them have ever known before.

Not Good enough for Heaven. Never Evil enough for Hell.

Just, the two of them. Perpetually.

_Our side._

Aziraphale and Crowley don't realize it, but as Crowley dives his mouth down to Aziraphale's neck and Aziraphale tears half-mad at the buttons on Crowley's shirt, they are thinking the same thing:

_Why did we wait so long?_

Crowley presses him harder back against the wall. The angel moans into his mouth. He wrestles off the angel's bow-tie and is halfway done with his shirt when Aziraphale starts pushing them in another direction. Towards the only flat surface in the room.

Crowley spins them and they fall gracelessly onto the surface of the desk. They knock over the open bottle of wine and it spills red across the floor. Scrabbling, grabbing, caressing, and kissing, kissing everywhere their lips could reach—Crowley wants to know what Aziraphale's jaw tastes like, his cheek, his hair, his forehead, his mouth, his mouth, his _mouth_. So messy and so receptive and so intoxicating, and the whole time Aziraphale is practically mewling under him, so soft and so real. How can this be real?

Pants are undone but not kicked off, they're too far gone to think with any great deal of sense. It's just a desire for skin, for _more_, to meld into each other.

Crowley gasps when they drag crotch to crotch, even through the fabric of their underwear. Aziraphale is panting and wrecked beneath him, and Crowley feels the flush creeping up his entire chest and neck. A few desperate movements of a similar nature follow; Aziraphale clutches him and brings him down into another searing kiss. Crowley licks his way into the angel's mouth and decides it's a taste he will never tire of.

It's a mess of panting and seeking friction. That same delicious rub over and over.

Aziraphale pulls back enough to look at him. Cups Crowley's face.

"I love you," he whispers, voice breaking halfway through.

Crowley lets go first with a shattered gasp. Aziraphale follows immediately afterwards. Hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, Crowley drops his head against the angel's chest, murmuring, _"I love you, I love you, I love you,"_ like a prayer into Aziraphale's damp skin.

They miracle away the mess. Moonlight paints them both in black and white, still sprawled sweating and half naked on the desk, their pants bunched up around the ankles, underwear still on. It was messy and rushed and overwhelming and chaotic. It's beautiful, to Crowley. Aziraphale has not yet begun to form coherent thoughts again.

They both assume this is not the other's first go 'round with carnal pleasures of the flesh.

They are both wrong.

The silence finds them. Just their breathing, the rustle of Crowley's terrified plants, distant London traffic, the pitter-patter of a light rain. Nothing else.

Aziraphale finally finds his voice. "I do hope you found that convincing."

Crowley snorts into the angel's chest. "Fine. You've sold me."

Aziraphale is playing with his hair, running his hands through the auburn strands with a mixture of curiosity and incredible tenderness.

"I do love you," Aziraphale repeats again. "More than I can say. But I'll show you, Crowley. We have the rest of forever for me to show you just how much."

"Shut up, angel." Even now, he doesn't want to go completely soft. He does have a reputation to maintain.

"There is a simple way to accomplish that," Aziraphale says, tugging just so at Crowley's hair. Crowley catches the hint and kisses him firmly, hand trailing down his chest, pausing at his waist. He notices, dimly, that Aziraphale's wings are out, now. One lazily moves to cover the both of them.

"The rest of forever, eh?" Crowley murmurs, pulling back ever so slightly.

Aziraphale sighs into Crowley's hair, his words barely a whisper: "A pity we don't have longer."


End file.
